


Warm Up

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tf-speedwriting Advent prompt 'aches and pains'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Up

Rodimus had decided that the planet looked ‘boring’, so he’d put Drift in charge of the away team. It was probably more of one of those outings to prevent or forestall starship fever, just get out, stretch the limbs, run the alts along terrain a little less regular and bland than the shipboard tracks than anything else. Airframes needed to fly, and, well, groundframes, too, could use a little run on real terrain. 

Still, Drift took his job seriously, having everyone synch their chronos before getting off the shuttle, and having Whirl check his twice, with a dire threat that he would, yes, leave the copter there if he missed the rendezvous. 

He didn’t mean it, but sometimes being an ex-Decepticon came in handy. 

Whirl had whupped off in a huff, rotors chopping the cold, crisp air and Drift stood, on the shuttle’s ramp, shoulders releasing with a sigh, steam rising from his vents. Right. All he had to do now was wait and hope that the place was as innocuous as it looked and for everyone to get back on time.

“Too old for this slag.” Ratchet’s voice, behind him, footplates thunking on the ramp’s grating as he moved beside Drift to squint into the bright light of day, sun glowing off the white-blue sheets of hardpack snow.

“You didn’t have to come,” Drift said, quietly.  Not in reproach, but appreciation. Ratchet already knew that.

“Yeah, well,” Ratchet’s mouth tugged into a frown. “Someone has to be close by when this crew’s running around to attach all the scrap that’s likely to need reattaching.”  Whirl’s tailrotor after Ratchet had extracted it from his chest gun, Tailgate’s hand that one time (PS, yes, Tailgate, it apparently was explosive), Trailcutter’s lower leg after that whole Glock Moment he had which was exactly why Ratchet was distinctly against leg guns Primus dammit….  The point was, it was a long list, and they needed someone with them and First Aid was holding down the medibay proper.

Some things First Aid really shouldn’t have to handle. Not till he got used to more ‘combat ready’ mechs. 

Drift grinned, then jerked his head out toward the snowy plane.  “You could go have some fun for a bit.”

“Fun.” His mouth pinched into a line.  “It’s fragging cold out there, Drift.” 

“The others don’t seem to mind.” The others were way over the horizon, though, mayhem-bound, only about half of them paying attention to the grids he’d told them to scout. 

“They’re not me,” Ratchet said, stepping down onto the snow. It crunched under his weight, but over that, Drift could hear the pinging of metal contracting in the cold. It was an old, forged mech problem: sensitivity to cold, parts that just…ached. He flexed and stretched his—Pharma’s—hands, wincing.  “Like I said, too old for this.”

“There’s a way to warm up, you know.” Drift winked.

“Drift!”

“What?” The blue optics widened, puzzled. “I meant, you know, racing.” 

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. Right.  Rung probably had a big fancy term for it, but Ratchet would just call it ‘Drift’. As in ‘terrible social skills’.  Partly because, well, the gutters weren’t ever known as a charm school, and the Decepticons didn’t help.  But perhaps Drift knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed getting Ratchet spun up.

Drift nudged him toward the snow again. “Come on. I’ll even go easy.”

“Easy,” Ratchet snorted. “Like you can even do that.”  Drift didn’t have any gear other than redlined.  Never had.  Sometimes he wondered if that was the addiction that had replaced the circuit boosting.

Drift cocked his head, and Ratchet could see a glint of the Drift he’d met all those years ago in Rodion: arrogant, cocky, and promising. “Sounds like you’re making excuses.” A beat. “Old mech.”   He danced back from Ratchet’s sputter, flipping down into his alt mode, engine revving.  “Ever come up with a retort, you’re going to have to catch me.”  The tires spun, spitting a fan of snow as they bit into the terrain, spinning Drift’s aft to one side before he released his clutch, tearing forward across the white. 

And Ratchet had no choice but to follow after, tires bouncing off the ice as he threw himself after Drift, shifting modes in midair, feeling the tires grip against the crunchy snow, the cold air skimming over his blocky hood, racing after the white and red aft that waggled, almost teasing him.  //Don’t think I can do it, do you?// Yeah, surprise was going to be on Drift. Old and big didn’t mean slow, especially not on terrain like this, where the speedster’s lighter weight made his tires skid and spin far more than Ratchet’s. 

//Never said that.//

//Hnph. Just heavily implied.//

A laugh over the channel, Drift slamming on his brakes to do a 180 spin, before taking off in the opposite direction, skimming a handspan from Ratchet’s side.  //Better than making you admit you’re warmer now. And that you’re having fun.//

//….shut up.//


End file.
